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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30100563">With Eyes Wide Open (A Tragedy in Three Acts)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofthedagger/pseuds/queerofthedagger'>queerofthedagger</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Merlin Stories [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Hopeful Ending, Angst and Tragedy, BAMF Gwen (Merlin), Don't copy to another site, Enemies to Lovers, Episode: s05e06 The Dark Tower, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Gwen Has Magic, Gwen-centric, Heavy Angst, Mind Control, Minor Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Overcoming Trauma, Pining, Season/Series 05, Trauma, Unhappy Ending, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, no infidelity though</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:55:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,200</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30100563</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofthedagger/pseuds/queerofthedagger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a breaking point, and Morgana has always known all too well how to find each and every one of Gwen's.</p><p>The enchantment Morgana tries to weave in the dark tower does not work as intended, not entirely. It's in the aftermath, though, that Gwen has to make a row of hard choices; where she has to decide for herself what she wants and what she needs. It's not easy, and they might not end up being the right decisions, but for once they are all hers and maybe that's all that matters.</p><p>A story of grief, rage, (the absence of) forgiveness, and loving someone who is still alive but does not exist anymore. Of maybe taking a wrong turn that leads to the right destination.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gwen/Morgana (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Merlin Stories [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Merlin Bingo, Morgwen Winter Solstice 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Act I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanta_Black/gifts">Atlanta_Black</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dear Atlanta, you asked for angst and this is definitely... that. I combined some of your prompts and likes, and hope you'll enjoy what came out of it. ❤️</p><p>There is a playlist that goes with this fic. I would recommend listening to it in order as the songs are sorted to go with the chapters. You can find it <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3yBincQhzq4qShjLZODoB2?si=4VVCpF29TgaB1WKBfy6zFg">here.</a></p><p>A thousand thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lawless_bard/pseuds/Lawless_bard">Lawless</a> for the absolutely amazing beta-work. ❤️</p><p><i>Please</i> mind the tags, they are no joke. Please also mind that "Chose not to use Archive Warnings" does <i>not</i> mean that none of AO3's warnings apply, but that <i>any</i> could be found in this fic. I felt like tagging the one that does apply would potentially spoil some of the story, but you can click to view the end-note if you want to know.</p><p>This also fills my "Mind Control" square from the Merlin bingo.</p><p>Please do not repost my work anywhere or list it on goodreads (or similar sites).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“There were rooms of forgiveness in the house that we share, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>but the space has been emptied of whatever was there.”</em>
</p><p>*</p><p>The sun is burning down, unrelenting, the air heavy with the dust whirling up at every single step they’re taking. It smells of decay and sorrow, pungent-sweet curling through her nostrils until she can’t tell anymore if it’s the scent or her fury that’s strangling her throat.</p><p>Behind their group, the dark tower grows ever smaller, yet Gwen is certain that Morgana’s eyes are burning into her back for a long time. It’s reassuring, in a way, like the strain in her muscles when she worked the forge or the repetitive motions of cleaning laundry that she once was used to. Comforting like the roughness of her palms against her skin that she hasn’t felt in a long time because she’s not allowed to use her hands anymore.</p><p>Morgana’s gaze and the possessive obsession resting within are the only familiar thing she has left. It shouldn’t be—Arthur’s walking at her side, concerned glances sliding over her again and again. Merlin’s a step behind them, just as concerned but with a different weight to his gaze.</p><p>Suspicion, she thinks and has to keep her lips from drawing back into a snarl. What right does he, of all people, have to judge someone for betrayal?</p><p>Although that’s not right either, is it, because Gwen’s not going to betray them, not Merlin and especially not Arthur. She won’t, she <em>won’t</em>, she—</p><p>She should say something, <em>has</em> to—about how Morgana has done something to her and how it’s as if there are two voices in her head, two hearts beating in her chest. A frantic humming of contradictions, leaving her teetering on a precipice she can’t quite see.</p><p>Morgana has done something to her, she <em>knows</em> this. Knows that the hatred coating her veins should belong to Morgana alone. It should be the only piece of herself that still belongs to Morgana.</p><p>Yet it is the only piece that <em>doesn’t</em>, and she knows, too, that this should terrify her.</p><p>It doesn’t.</p><p>When they finally leave the wasteland behind and enter the forest, sunlight is slanting through the canopy of trees in gossamer threads of gold. It reminds her of Morgana’s eyes, carrying a longing in its wake which nearly dispels the coldness that has seeped into her bones since Morgana said her goodbyes. She had told Gwen they’d see each other soon, with a glint in her eyes and a crook to her smile too reminiscent of years long past.</p><p>This, too, should fill her with fear, bring her to <em>finally say something</em>. To shout that she’s not safe, not alright—not only quiet because she’s been abducted and watched her brother being killed.</p><p>Her lips don’t move, and she’s unable to tell if she can’t or if she <em>won’t</em>, and which one would be worse.</p>
<hr/><p>Arthur was supposed to fill her with familiarity; Camelot is meant to offer safety, a flicker of warmth and hope. To allow her the belief that whatever Morgana’s done to her wasn’t successful. Instead, she feels caged, watched, and she’s not sure why she’s surprised because it has been this way ever since Arthur crowned her his queen.</p><p>There are memories of thinking that it was worth it; of how she loved him so much, her body didn’t feel big enough to contain it all.</p><p>She remembers all these things—the familiarity, the safety, the love—but they’re nowhere to be found. It would be kinder if she didn’t remember. If she didn’t know that something within her had been <em>broken</em>, leaving her conscious of the wrongness in every little part of her life but uncaring all the same.</p><p>When she sneaks out of the castle to meet with Morgana, there’s no doubt in her. For the first time in days, there’s not a sliver of doubt. Morgana’s arms feel like coming home, the hollow ache in her chest finally settling to a simmer, and she quietly wonders why she even bothers fighting it.</p><p>Maybe Gwen’s the one who got it wrong all along; maybe Morgana didn’t do anything but help her, but no, that’s not right,<em> it</em> <em>isn’t</em>, because she remembers, she—</p><p>“Nobody suspects anything,” she hears herself say, hears the hint of smugness and derision. “They assume that I’m still shaken, but nothing more.”</p><p>They’re not her words, and yet they are the truest thing she’s spoken since Arthur had found her.</p><p>The gentleness of Morgana’s fingers on her cheek settles her, the protest in her mind slipping away, and she leans into the touch instinctively.</p><p><em>I hate this</em>, she wants to say. “I hate them,” is what makes it past her lips, and Morgana’s smile is bright and beautiful, and Gwen hasn’t missed anything as painfully as seeing Morgana happy.</p><p>“You’re not alone anymore,” Morgana says, soothing but a promise holding too much weight. “We’ll be rid of them soon enough.”</p><p>Something’s tearing at Gwen’s chest, like ivy curling around her ribs and through her lungs, demanding to be let out. There’s so much confidence in Morgana’s eyes though, and Gwen, Gwen suddenly <em>understands</em>.</p><p>There’s not supposed to be a conflict. She’s not supposed to remember, to doubt, to feel anything but what she once felt for Morgana.</p><p>Gwen wants to laugh at how she had begged for this kindness, mere days ago. Wants to snarl and spit, demand why Morgana couldn’t have thought about how pathetically <em>alone</em> she would end up in her pursuit of vengeance.</p><p>Perhaps she wants to ask all this, as much as she wants for at least one of the voices in her head to finally, <em>finally</em> shut up. But there’s also something else, a distant shade of an idea made of whisps and fog, of magic bending her into someone she’s not. Of memories—Morgana locked into a pit, Morgana poisoned by Merlin, Morgana terrified and so very alone.</p><p>Gwen presses her face into Morgana’s hair and wonders if this is what perdition tastes like.</p>
<hr/><p>There’s blood on her hands, coating her fingers as they hold the knife, steady. It’s seeping into her burgundy sleeve, dripping to the stone floor in quiet, sickening drops. There’s an unmoving body on the other side of the bars, once kind eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, to never blink or laugh or cry again.</p><p>Something in her mind is screaming, screaming itself hoarse with pleas and curses, but her heart is calm and her hands are so very steady.</p><p>She clenches her fingers around the hilt until the edges dig into her palm; ignores the blood on her skin, the knowledge that it should sicken her, and bites down on her lips to—not to silence the screams.</p><p>She won’t scream, <em>could not;</em> but something is building in her chest, pulsing and twisting. White spots are dancing in her vision, like staring straight into the sun, and a wave of dizziness nearly brings her to her knees.</p><p>When she can finally see again, there’s no blood on her hands, no blood on the knife or the floor, no matter how long she stares. She must’ve wiped it off, somehow, must’ve just not noticed because a part of her wants to burn with rage.</p><p>She doesn’t find an explanation, but she doesn’t think about it either as she makes her way into the forest.</p><p>“I’m so proud of you,” Morgana says later, gentle and smiling. The screaming tinkers out, mere echoes reverberating at the base of her skull, and she lets herself lean on the only person who doesn’t set her teeth on edge despite promising herself that she wouldn’t.</p><p>Yielding to Morgana had always been too easy, right until it wasn’t. Now, with none of the contempt left in Morgana’s eyes, none of the wariness that’s becoming a familiar sight in Arthur’s and Merlin’s, it’s near inevitable.</p><p>Gwen is so very tired of fighting, of doubting her every step and her every thought. This though she knows; the weight of Morgana’s hands on her shoulders. The calm of her mind, only ever with her. The way Morgana looks at her as if they’d never held swords to each other’s throats, and how this surely, <em>surely</em> cannot be faked.</p><p>The growing suspicion that what Morgana did to her, Morgause did to Morgana, but no one has ever bothered to question the reason for Morgana’s sudden change.</p><p>Not Gwen herself, too easily perceived by her own convictions, too quick to take the sudden changes at face-value. Not Arthur, too focused on winning his kingdom back and saving his tyrant of a father. Certainly not Merlin, pouring poison down Morgana’s throat long before she had done anything to deserve it.</p><p>She wonders if he would do the same to her. If she’d let him, and it sends fear racing down her spine, makes her hands tighten around Morgana’s.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says, choked, and now, <em>now</em> her hands are trembling, her heart trying to thunder right out of her chest. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve never given up on you.”</p><p>Morgana pulls back and a small frown flickers across her face, something too close to wariness. But with the absence of her warmth, the screams are picking up again, the ever-persistent voice that she wouldn’t be doing this, wouldn’t be saying any of this if Morgana wasn’t controlling her.</p><p>“I—I should get back before anyone gets suspicious,” she presses out. She’s helpless against squeezing Morgana’s wrist once more.</p><p>Back in her chambers, she scrubs at her hands until the skin is raw, but it doesn’t help against the sensation of cloying blood and lies burrowed beneath her skin. Doesn’t help against the certainty that there <em>should</em> be blood because she never washed it off.</p>
<hr/><p>Arthur’s sitting beside her, toying with his cup and recounting one story or another about Merlin and the knights.</p><p>Once, she would’ve smiled with fondness. Now, she has to keep words locked behind her teeth—about how she couldn’t care less, and can’t he just finally drink, damn him. How she’s not been herself for weeks and he hasn’t even noticed, not really.</p><p>And, deeper, words begging him not to drink; to do more than sometimes watch her with worry knitting his brows and walking around her on tiptoes. To <em>save her.</em> Isn’t that what he does? What he is <em>supposed</em> to do, and why does it not apply to her, the one time she truly needs him?</p><p>His story finishes with a content smile, and for a second, there’s no part within herself that doesn’t want him to drink. A second passes, and it’s too late to change her mind; not that she could, she’s learned that by now. But she’s also learned to untangle her memories from the suggestions—<em>orders</em>—one delicate, spidery strand at a time.</p><p>Another second, and his arms go limp, his head lolling. He struggles briefly before he stills, head tipped back against the chair and his lips parted.</p><p>Gwen allows herself a moment to watch; to let her eyes trace the familiar features that she once loved. She remembers hope, and happiness, and telling herself over and over and <em>over</em> that it would all be better when he was finally king; finally <em>hers</em>.</p><p>She remembers, but there’s only constant, cold resentment trickling through her blood now. It’s wavering and flickering against <em>something</em>, as if there’s a living, breathing thing curled away in the hearth beneath her heart that wants to protest, to scream and shout this ever-present indifference into submission.</p><p>Her hand reaches for the second vial without any conscious decision on her part; the thing in her chest flares.</p><p>Arthur’s so close, she merely has to lean forward. Has to only uncork the unsuspecting bottle of glass to seal his fate. His, and hers, and so, so many others.</p><p>There’s no hesitation in her hands, and the poison drops honey-slow as she watches, like a mere spectator in her own body.</p><p>A sort of inhumane sound tumbles past her lips, not a growl but not a whine either, and the thing in her chest blazes with heat. Behind her, a vase shatters, shards flying around her without leaving a scratch on either of them.</p><p>She’s around the table and out of the room before the dust has settled. The panic in her voice as she calls for the guards isn’t the slightest bit of acting.</p>
<hr/><p>Arthur lives. Arthur lives, and the immeasurable heat in her chest has simmered down to something more comfortable, something close to relief. To a centre of contentment amidst an ocean of rage, surging through her limbs and turning her stomach at the knowledge that someone had interfered—again.</p><p>Even Merlin has wormed his way out of the dungeons again, and she feels his eyes burning into her back as Arthur celebrates her in front of the court for finding the culprit.</p><p>She knows, knows that if she were herself, the rage whenever Merlin speaks to her wouldn’t be as bad; it might still be there, but not as destructive, wouldn’t be clawing at her skin from the inside, urging her to get rid of him nearly more than it itches for Arthur’s life.</p><p>She’s not herself though, not really, even if no one seems to notice. Even if Morgana treats her as if she is, and it leaves her wondering if the contentment that comes from this is really all Morgana’s doing.</p><p>The answer is easy, although it shouldn’t be, and maybe what she hates most is that none of this would’ve had to happen if only she considered sooner that it’s not really Morgana who’s doing this either. If only Morgana had given her a sign that she needed help.</p><p>Then again, Gwen’s not asking for help either, and she, at least, knows that she’s not herself. Even though she really should, even as she physically <em>can’t</em>, if only to find a way to save both of them.</p><p>She will, though. Morgana might’ve made her a puppet, unable to refuse to do her bidding, unable to love anyone but her. Unable to do anything but tell herself, over and over that neither the hatred nor the heat in her chest belongs to her—but somehow, Gwen will find a way, and she’ll be damned if she ever gives up on Morgana again.</p><p>They both can be saved, she <em>knows</em> this; knows this as the only certainty she has left, and she won’t make the same mistake twice.</p>
<hr/><p>The irony of Merlin noticing first that something’s wrong with her stings; the fact that he only does because of the danger to Arthur does so more, and yet it’s barely surprising.</p><p>Morgana reveals her plan to lure him away from Camelot shortly after. The anticipation of soon not having to see him again is what carries Gwen through the first few days of the Sarrum’s visit.</p><p>It only lasts until he starts speaking about what he’s done to Morgana, and there’s no doubt within her that she would’ve loathed him with every fibre of her being even if she was herself.</p><p>When he laughs about Morgana’s screams, the warmth within her chest pulses and twists, her cutlery vibrating on the table. She clenches her teeth so tightly that her jaw cracks as she excuses herself from the dinner.</p><p>As she storms through the corridors, her fingers buried into the folds of her dress, the windows rattle alongside her and the torches flare, high and bright. Some of her rage abates to make room for fear, and she can’t draw a single breath until the doors to her chambers are locked behind her.</p><p>Gwen has never been in the habit of lying to herself, not since her mother died and she learned what it meant to put loyalty to her family above her own desires. But this, this <em>thing</em>, this sensation of resistant power that seems so very intent to make its way out of her chest, crawling up her throat and down to her hands—it terrifies her more than Morgana ever has.</p><p>There’s only one explanation, but it <em>can’t</em> be. She won’t allow it, won’t put a name to it—won’t acknowledge it as anything but a side-effect of what Morgana’s done to her, something that will disappear once she’s cured.</p><p>And Gwen will be; there <em>has</em> to be a cure, and it’s only going to be a matter of time. She has no doubt that Merlin told Gaius about his concerns before he left with the Druid boy, and though he won’t return, not <em>ever</em> again, Gaius’ considering glances are as unsubtle as Merlin’s were.</p><p>Once Merlin’s disappearance has been noted as more than an inconvenience it won’t take too long for Gaius to approach Arthur.</p><p>From there on out, it is only a matter of time until Arthur comes up with a solution because in this, too, Morgana is right—Arthur has always been too predictable for his own good.</p><p>Of course, it all depends on Arthur surviving the attack from the Sarrum. As much as her heart is screaming at her that <em>no</em>, <em>she doesn’t want this, she wants him dead, finally, gone from this castle and this land to allow Morgana her rightful place</em>—rationally, she prays that his stupid, endless luck will hold out one more time.</p>
<hr/><p>It does; the arrow with Arthur’s name on it buries itself into the Sarrum’s chest, and as her blood boils with anger, her mind and the warmth in her chest sigh with relief so strong, it outweighs the ice easily.</p><p>It withers, just a little, when she finds Merlin back at Arthur’s side, with nothing but a limp and still so very suspicious eyes.</p><p>Although maybe, she should be grateful—the chance of her being saved, and thus the chance of saving Morgana, may just be better this way.</p><p>Or maybe he will pour poison down her throat too, a voice sounding too much like Morgana’s whispers, and so she starts sleeping with a knife beneath her pillow and a dare burning on her tongue that he should just <em>try</em>.</p>
<hr/><p>One moment, she’s having dinner with Arthur, Morgana’s expression when Gwen told her that she’ll do <em>anything</em>, anything to keep her safe still swimming through her mind. The next—the next, she wakes up at the shore of an unfamiliar lake, and panic rushes through her whole body like a tidal wave.</p><p>“Guinevere—<em>Guinevere</em>,” Arthur says, pleads, really, and it’s the way he says her name, the enunciation that only he ever uses, that stops her struggling. The warmth in her chest purrs at his touch, and for a moment, she swears she can remember the echoes of love she once felt.</p><p>Distantly, she hears that he’s still talking, but the meaning of his words seems to slip through her fingers. The warmth in her chest is growing—not the threatening heat she’s nearly got used to, but a constant trickling sensation that spreads further, through her arms and her stomach, and it’s like taking the first breath of air in weeks.</p><p>It’s urging her forward, towards Arthur who’s now standing within the water with his hand held out and so much hope in his eyes, it hurts to look at it.</p><p>She still doesn’t know what any of this means, but she knows, knows she wants to go to him.</p><p>Her feet move, and she didn’t expect, didn’t think she <em>could</em>—didn’t think that whatever grasp Morgana has on her would allow this, but she can, she can actually move, stumble until her hand slips into Arthur’s and the world erupts in white-golden light.</p><p>When she comes back to herself, she’s enveloped in Arthur’s arms, strong and safe and <em>familiar</em>, and for one perfect, overwhelming moment, she never wants this to end. For one perfect, overwhelming moment, she thinks the nightmare is finally over and the warmth within her is nothing but love, nothing but love for Arthur.</p><p>A shift, a twist, and two realisations.</p><p>One—she has been saved, and that means, Morgana can be saved, too.</p><p>Two—the warmth in her chest is still pulsing, still tingling down her arms and dancing across her fingertips in tiny shards of glittering damnation.</p><p>Gwen made a promise; she made a promise, and she will keep it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Act II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s only been a few days since they returned to Camelot.</p>
<p>Merlin’s all easy, relieved smiles around her, and as much as some of her fury has eased, she still can’t look him in the eyes without a flicker of resentment surging through her. Without her throat closing up with all the accusations she can’t speak.</p>
<p>Arthur’s rarely leaving her alone and he’s affectionate in a way he’s never been before, and yet. And yet, she can’t help but think that it’s taken <em>this</em> and that it’s not going to last either.</p>
<p>Can’t help but think that she deserves neither of their relief, neither of their affection because ever since they’ve made it back to Camelot, Gwen’s written and burnt more letters than she can count, none of them telling Morgana to go to hell.</p>
<p>It’s ridiculously pathetic; after everything Morgana’s done to Camelot, after everything Morgana’s done to <em>her</em>, maybe it shouldn’t matter at all <em>why</em> she’s done it.</p>
<p>After all these years, maybe it’s too late to save her, and Gwen most definitely shouldn’t be the one trying, not anymore. Not when she’s gasping awake night after night, hallucinations and Elyan’s face and Morgana’s cruel laughter swimming in her mind, screams lodged deep in her throat.</p>
<p>Not when she still can’t look at Merlin and Arthur and Leon, and anticipate the pungent taste of hatred, can’t look at them without thinking, <em>you all gave up on her, you all condemned her, and I did too—do you hate yourself as much for it as I do? Don’t you ever regret, ever miss her? Don’t you ever think you should’ve tried? </em></p>
<p>Gwen shouldn’t be the one trying. She should be back to where all that resentment and disappointment within her is reserved for Morgana alone. </p>
<p>Except.</p>
<p>When she jerks awake at night, the bedframe rattles and the windows shake. When the phantom touch of ice Morgana infused her with crawls underneath her skin, the fire in the hearth surges.</p>
<p>When she stops lying to herself, she knows there’s only one possible explanation; only one and it leaves her with fear rooted so deeply, it doesn’t matter at all what Morgana has done.</p>
<p>Understanding how Morgana must’ve felt all those years ago doesn’t mean she has to excuse what came after; doesn’t have to forgive how Morgana chose an unknown sister over her.</p>
<p><em>Except</em>.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Do you—you know what Morgana did to me, don’t you?”</p>
<p>It’s one of those rare nights where Merlin isn’t here but she still didn’t plan to ask, didn’t know these were the words that would make it past her lips when she opened her mouth.</p>
<p>Arthur stills with the goblet halfway to his mouth, and his face twists with concern as much as it does with poorly concealed anger. “I do,” he says, careful, slow.</p>
<p>He’s doing this a lot these days, and she has to take a deep breath to keep from snapping at him.<strike></strike></p>
<p>When he doesn’t say anything else, she leans forward. “Explain?”</p>
<p>His hesitation is palpable, but eventually, he does. It’s quite obvious that he’s skimming over the details, his eyes fixed on her face as if waiting for her to break down.</p>
<p>A part of her is grateful. Another wants to hurl her plate at him, wants to grab a sword and prove to him that she’s not going to fall apart<em>, she’s not,</em> that his hovering is only making her skin itch and her blood soar.</p>
<p>She doesn’t; listens to his brief descriptions of the ritual, of how it uses the victim’s greatest fears until they lose their minds, and it’s like she can hear the screams again. Can feel them crawling up her spine, winding around her throat, horrors and taunts and all her helpless desperation as she can do nothing to either help the people she loves or defend herself against them.</p>
<p>The window behind her slams shut, and they both jump. Her heart is racing in her chest, and she clenches her jaw against the panic. “It must’ve been the wind,” she says, and there has been a time where she would’ve come up with better excuses, once.</p>
<p>Arthur doesn’t look convinced, but he nods, his brows furrowing as if he’s contemplating what to say.</p>
<p>She wants to stop him, doesn’t want to hear a single word out of his mouth anymore, no matter how his voice used to soothe her. It’s just another thing she’s lost, that Morgana had taken from her but amidst everything else, it hardly matters.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry—”</p>
<p>“Do you think Morgause did the same thing to Morgana?” she cuts in, the question startling them both. She tilts her chin up though. Daring him to dismiss her, to prove that not only did he care as little about the reasons for Morgana’s sudden change as she did, but that he will keep ignoring it as well.</p>
<p>She nearly wishes he would. Wishes he would give her something to justify the unease and irritation still living inside her bones, flaring and snarling whenever he comes near her.</p>
<p>It’s not only Arthur; it’s all of them. Merlin with his blatant relief as if everything’s suddenly alright again. Leon with his awkward decorum when he offers her smiles. He stays close like he can’t bear leaving her alone but as if they hadn’t been friends throughout their childhood either. As if their stations matter more than whatever it is that she needs.</p>
<p>She knows none of this is fair, none of this is really, truly herself, but it also <em>is.</em></p>
<p>This is her, now, and as much as they all like to pretend that the horror ended the moment she walked into that lake, there are nightmares and nauseating memories and a flaring, pulsing, living heat inside her chest that prove it all lies.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure,” Arthur finally says, but there’s a reluctant gleam of hope in his eyes, sending a tendril of warmth through her. “Even—even if that happened, it’s been so long—”</p>
<p>“But it’s possible. And if that is what happened to her, then it means that there’s a chance to save her.”</p>
<p>Arthur’s brows furrow and he watches her for long moments, fingers fiddling with their wedding ring. It’s not in concern, for once, but assessing consideration that leaves her too bare, too revealed, and she nearly regrets bringing it up at all.</p>
<p>Only nearly, though; as much as fear is sprawling through her limbs, ice-cold and numbing at the chance that he might <em>see</em>, might understand what’s keeping her awake at night and restless through the day, Gwen made a promise. Gwen made a promise, and if there’s one truth left about herself that she can hold on to, it’s that she always stays true to her word.</p>
<p>“Even if that’s what happened,” Arthur repeats, his voice low, heavy. “I’m not sure there’s anyone left who would be able to reach her.”</p>
<p><em>I could</em>, she thinks, barely biting down on snarling it into his face. Barely biting back the triumph climbing up her throat, because this, this is all she needs; Arthur’s always been known to go to hell and back for the people he loves.</p>
<p>He’s still mourning Morgana; not as much as she does, would never consider clinging to her ghost this desperately, but neither is he as suffused in burning, encompassing rage like Gwen.</p>
<p>It takes her too long to notice that his eyes are still on her, contemplation still firmly in place. He must be seeing something on her face too, and she wants to shrink away or tell him to stop, wants to tell him to <em>finally stop watching her.</em></p>
<p>But then he says, “I’m going to talk to Gaius and Merlin,” and she’s never loved him more.</p>
<hr/>
<p>She finds Merlin in their chambers a few days later, busy with cleaning Arthur’s armour. She hovers at the door, watching him.</p>
<p>He hasn’t noticed her yet, and it would be so easy to slink away again. It’s becoming a habit to avoid him, accusations and questions and curses burning in her throat whenever he’s close, no matter how much he might not deserve it.</p>
<p>It’s not like she doesn’t understand; like there’s not a part of her that wishes he had been successful and spared them all so much loss and grief and suffering.</p>
<p>But she also can’t shake the memory of Morgana’s expression when she told Gwen; how he poured poison down her throat solely because of her magic, how she’d <em>trusted</em> him. Can’t shake the lingering shadow of burning jealousy, of the question of why Morgana had told him but not her.</p>
<p>Can’t forget how underneath all of Morgana’s cold venom, there’d still been a shard of hurt, and how it was more of a genuine emotion than she’d shown Gwen in years.</p>
<p>“Did Arthur talk to you?” she hears herself ask, burying her hands in the folds of her dress when he grins at her.</p>
<p>It slips when she doesn’t return it. A faint stab of guilt resonates through her chest, but she pushes it down.</p>
<p>Merlin straightens, putting the armour aside, and she knows what he’s going to say before he does.</p>
<p>“Yes, but I don’t think Morgause did to Morgana what—”</p>
<p>“You can’t know that.”</p>
<p>“True, I can’t. But even if that’s truly what happened to her, it’s been too long. I don’t think there’s anyone left who would get through to Morgana if there was a chance—”</p>
<p>“Maybe—”</p>
<p>“But even if there was,” Merlin interrupts her, and she has to tamp down the heat that’s surging through her, has to clench her hands more tightly. Has to remind herself what Morgana’s done, to all of them, list off every single instance where she’d hurt one of them. Where she killed people Gwen <em>loved</em>, and still, her jaw aches with the strength it costs her to not curse Merlin’s name right there and then.</p>
<p>“Even if there was, the enchantment would’ve broken the moment Morgause died.”</p>
<p><em>No</em>. That can’t be true, cannot be right because Gwen <em>knows</em>. She knows, down to the marrow of her bones, that the person who has once been everything good in the world cannot be the same who locked her into a room filled with horrors, left her there until she was aware of nothing but the taste of blood in her mouth.</p>
<p>It’s not<em>, it is not, it is—</em></p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Gwen, I wish as much as you that—”</p>
<p>The armour crashes to the floor. The fire in the hearth flares. The windows rattle in their frames, and a vase bursts into pieces, and Gwen’s <em>shaking</em>, shaking and staring at Merlin as he stares right back at her.</p>
<p>“<em>Gwen</em>,” he says, and his voice mirrors her own fear, but it’s still quiet, controlled as if he doesn’t want to startle her.</p>
<p>She wants to scream, and the furniture is shaking too, the ground trembling underneath her feet.</p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Merlin says, moving towards her. His eyes are too wide though, the tremor in his hands poorly hidden. “It’s alright, you’re fine.”</p>
<p>“I’m not,” she chokes out, and the mirror on the wall cracks, spidery fissures spreading over the glass. “I’m <em>not</em>, do not tell me that I am.”</p>
<p>He nods and stops a few feet away from her. She’s not sure if she wants to run or snarl or threaten him, air burning through her lungs like fire.</p>
<p>“Since when—did this happen before?” he asks, gentle, so very gentle. She wonders if this is how he made Morgana tell him.</p>
<p>Shaking her head, she tries pulling herself together, to take the pieces of her fear and her rage and the—this <em>thing</em>, this power she never asked for and which is Morgana’s fault, too, and locks them behind her ribs.</p>
<p>“You can tell me,” he says, a furrow between his brows. There’s a gravity to him that has only appeared in recent years, and Gwen wants to believe him. Wants to trust him, let him take the broken pieces of her and help her stitch them back together; like she’s still eighteen and he promises her that she will not die for something she hasn’t done.</p>
<p>“Like Morgana could tell you?” she spits instead, and the cold contempt in her voice startles even herself. “Like she trusted you, and you betrayed her for it?”</p>
<p>Merlin flinches back as if she'd struck him, but there’s also something hard entering his eyes, something unforgiving.</p>
<p>“I didn’t try to poison her because she had magic—”</p>
<p>“Don’t,” she snarls, baring her teeth like she wanted to all those weeks ago. It’s not because of his denial, not because he’s trying to feed her lies, and her rage and her fear are coalescing into something that robs the air right out of her lungs.</p>
<p>“What, tell you that she betrayed you long before you knew? Trusted Morgause more, willing to kill half of Camelot for—”</p>
<p>
  <em>“Shut up.” </em>
</p>
<p>“I won’t. What I’ve done, I’ve done because it was Morgana or everyone else. You can hate me for the choices I made—can hate me for calling what you just did magic, too, but it won’t change the truth of either of these things,” he says, unforgiving and harsh. He softens, after a beat, and suddenly he looks so, so tired. “I just want to help, Gwen.”</p>
<p>The name falls familiar from his lips, warm and soothing like it hasn’t once since she became queen. She only loathes him so much more for it.</p>
<p>“Get out,” she says, low and cold, and she means it too; has never wanted to see him less, not even when it was Morgana’s hatred coursing through her.</p>
<p>“Gwen—”</p>
<p>“I said <em>get out.”</em></p>
<p>Merlin’s shoulders slump, breath rushing out of him. He holds her eyes for a moment longer before he inclines his head and walks towards the door.</p>
<p>“And Merlin,” she says, stopping him just as he reaches for the handle. The expression he graces her with is both wary and hopeful, and she tilts her chin up, squares her shoulders. “If you tell anyone about this, rest assured that I will tell Arthur what you’ve done to Morgana. How what happened to her is your fault alone. I, for one, would be rather curious to find out who, between the two of us, he’d believe more. Aren’t you?”</p>
<p>A flash of devastation and Merlin’s face blanks over. Shutters into something foreign, distant, and he inclines his head. “My Lady.”</p>
<p>The door clicks shut, and she staggers underneath the sudden weight crashing onto her shoulders. Her legs are shaking, and she stumbles towards the table until she can rest her palms on it, flat to the wood. Can feel every nook and crease, can close her eyes and <em>breathe</em>.</p>
<p>When she opens them again, the room has stopped spinning, but the proof is still glaring at her. The shattered mirror, the cups lying overturned on the table. Arthur’s armour scattered across the floor, and she’s so, so terrified.</p>
<p>Gwen’s never had the urge to enact revenge on anyone. Has never believed that it would fix anything, not even her own grief, but at that moment, in Arthur’s chambers bearing witness of every single way Morgana has destroyed her life, she thinks she could hold a sword to her throat and mean it.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Arthur tells her what Merlin already said the same evening.</p>
<p>They’re sitting over dinner again, and Merlin’s trying his best to disappear into the background. His eyes barely leave Gwen though, more watchful and alert than he’d been when she was under Morgana’s control.</p>
<p>“So you’re not even going to try?” she asks, failing to keep the scathing reproach out of her tone.</p>
<p>Arthur sighs, and she finds the same, well-worn grief etched into every line of his face.</p>
<p>It’s not enough.</p>
<p>“I wish I could. If there was even the smallest prospect of hope, I wouldn’t stop at anything to get her back. I miss her just as much as you do, Guinevere, you know—”</p>
<p>“You don’t,” she spits, mirthless laughter breaking out of her throat. “If you did, you wouldn’t be giving up before you even tried.”</p>
<p>His jaw clenches, hand tightening around his goblet, and this, <em>this</em> is what she wants; for him to fight her, to treat her as an equal, to throw all his arguments at her feet and watch her pick them apart one at a time.</p>
<p>“What do you expect me to do?”</p>
<p>“You saved me, didn’t you? The sorceress who helped you, she would do it again. We at least have to <em>try</em>, how can you—”</p>
<p>“And how, exactly, do you think this is going to work?” Arthur interrupts her, the lines around his mouth tightening. His shoulders are stiff, and the look in his eyes is one that has only ever been directed at her once. “Shall I send a battalion of knights, hoping at least a handful of them will be able to capture and drug her to bring her to the Cauldron of Arianrhod? Hope that one of us will be able to convince her to walk into that blasted lake when nothing any of us have done over the last few years ever worked?”</p>
<p>“She won’t do it,” Merlin says into the following pause, stepping forward, at last.</p>
<p>Arthur’s shoulders relax slightly, and Gwen’s unable to bite down on the sneer that’s curling her lips. “And how would you know? Morgana—”</p>
<p>“I’m not talking about Morgana,” Merlin says, his face carefully blank when he meets her eyes. “The sorceress. She won’t help you again. Not for this.”</p>
<p>She wants to snap, again, how he assumes to know, but there’s something—something tickling at the back of her mind, always just slipping out of her grasp.</p>
<p>“And as I said—if Morgause had done to Morgana what Morgana did to you, the spell would’ve been broken when Morgause died. It didn’t, though. As much as we all wish that there was a happy end to all of this—”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” she snarls, and her fists tremble where they’re curled in her lap. The heat—<em>the</em> <em>magic</em> because she might as well finally call it that, might as well stop pretending to be a child that only ever sees monsters when they’re given a name—buzzes in her chest.</p>
<p>She clenches her eyes shut, bites her tongue until she can taste copper. The fury doesn’t subside, even as the prickling feeling in her limbs recedes.</p>
<p>When she opens her eyes again, both Merlin and Arthur are watching her. One with apprehension and grief, one with concern and pity. She’s never hated two humans so much, and she has never hated herself more.</p>
<p>“Maybe your willingness to give up on her so easily is exactly how we all got to where we are today,” she says, cold and with a voice that barely belongs to her.</p>
<p>Arthur flinches as if struck. Merlin’s eyes harden. Gwen pushes away from the table and leaves the chambers, and if it’s partly because fear is clawing at her insides, it’s as easy to ignore as the voice telling her that Morgana does not deserve an ounce of this.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The open court session has been running for a while and Gwen’s grateful for how very mundane it all is after the silent tension of the last few days.</p>
<p>Arthur’s still trying to give her space, but his eyes are always on her back, her neck, always following her. She cannot tell anymore if it’s out of concern or finally tipping into suspicion.</p>
<p>Merlin tried talking to her, more than once. He caught her alone more often than should be possible, and she brushed him off each and every time.</p>
<p>She’s telling herself that she doesn’t hate herself for the guilt and the grief that seems to weigh his shoulders down these days. That he deserves it, this and more for turning Morgana against them, and for not making sure that Morgana never succeeded. She’s not sure what she believes anymore, and all she wants is for her hands to stop shaking, for her dreams to stop haunting her, and for things to return to a time where her biggest worry was if Elyan would be coming home soon.</p>
<p>It’s a time long since past though, and Gwen’s long since learned that there’s no peace to be found in reminiscence.</p>
<p>The court is just about to call an end to today’s session when a messenger bursts in, his clothes torn and dirty, and blood oozing from a wound on his temple.</p>
<p>The knights straighten, Arthur’s gaze turning sharp. She can see Merlin drifting closer to Arthur’s side, and there it is again, that distinct inkling—</p>
<p>“Your Majesty,” the messenger says, and then he doesn’t go on. Bows his head and steps to the side, directing the attention of the room to two lower knights who had followed after him, unnoticed.</p>
<p>They’re carrying a stretcher between them, setting it down carefully in front of Arthur. When they pull the sheet back, the silence in the room turns stifling.</p>
<p>Where there’s supposed to be a face, only blank skin remains.</p>
<p>Bile rises in her throat, and her fingers tingle. Merlin glances at her and she raises her chin; wonders what he’s thinking, why his first impulse was to search her out among everyone who’s in the room.</p>
<p>There’s a certain irony in it when Gaius steps forward, expression grave, and only then Merlin’s gaze snaps away from her, settling on Gaius as he should have moments ago. “This has to be Morgana’s doing. In the days of the Old Religion, this was a declaration of war.”</p>
<p>Voices are breaking out all over the room, panic rising, tangible in the brimming air. Gwen barely hears any of it. Her ears are ringing, Gaius’ words repeating themselves over and over as if intent on forcing her to her knees.</p>
<p>There are only two ways this can end; only two ways and Gwen refuses both of them. Refuses to lose one more person in this pointless, endless feud that has cost her so, so much already. Refuses to stand aside for a second longer, and she finds herself in the middle of the room, staring straight at Arthur before she knows how she got there.</p>
<p>“No,” she says, and her voice rings through the throne room in a way that sounds unnatural. The wind seems to be picking up, and a corner of her mind points out that it doesn’t make sense; that they’re inside and the windows are closed. Windows that are softly rattling in their frames and Gwen—Gwen doesn’t care.</p>
<p>“No,” she repeats, squaring her shoulders. “We will not go to war with her.”</p>
<p>Arthur’s eyes are heavy on her skin, blue tinged dark with something she doesn’t dare name.</p>
<p>“Guinevere,” he says, and she wonders if it comes right down to it, what he would choose. But she knows it’s not even a question at all because, between her and Camelot, Arthur will only ever make one choice.</p>
<p>“You can end this,” she insists, pushing down the resentment that’s trying to climb up her throat. “We both know that there’s a way to put an end to this without any more bloodshed if only—”</p>
<p>“<em>Guinevere</em>,” he repeats, anger creeping into his tone, and oh, how it makes him look like Uther and Morgana both; eyes hard and jaw clenched, fury pressed into his fists where they curl around the armrests of his throne. “You know I value your council beyond anyone’s—”</p>
<p>“Except Merlin’s,” she spits, and she’s not sure if it only feels like the ground is trembling beneath her or if it truly does. “All he needed to do was tell you that it’s a lost cause and you gave up, didn’t you? <em>On your own sister. </em>On what your wife was begging you for.”</p>
<p>“That is enough.”</p>
<p>“It’s not,” she snarls, and then she laughs, throwing her head back as the magic surges through her. She doesn’t make a conscious decision to let it run its course, but she’s not fighting it either, isn’t trying to tamp down on all the rage and grief and helplessness that’s been building for so very long.</p>
<p>What does it matter, truly—what does it change if she stays in this gleaming ivory tower built of lies and people believing her to break any second, or if she finally, once and for all, proves that <em>she is not helpless.</em></p>
<p>“I know she can be saved; I know it, and if you would just try,” she says, and the papers are whirling up from the tables at the sides, the air sparkling with gold. “Can’t you bear the thought that your own sister has magic? That she’s your sister at all?”</p>
<p>Arthur’s eyes are wide, all his carefully crafted defences down. His mouth is a trembling, unhappy thing and something twists in her chest at being the one who put it there.</p>
<p>“Gwen,” someone says. Merlin, stepping forward, stepping between them, and it’s near impossible to make out the grief underneath his expression of hard determination, now. “I know it’s hard—know it’s horrible, really, but Morgana is <em>gone</em>. She’s not who you used to know, and it’s not because of Morgause.”</p>
<p>“She wouldn’t have come back,” Gwen throws back, burying her nails into her palms. <em>“Of course</em> she wouldn’t have come back, even if the spell broke. After everything that happened, after everything <em>you’ve</em> done to her, <em>of course she wouldn’t just come back</em>. You know her, she’s—”</p>
<p>“She cannot be saved,” Merlin insists, stepping closer to her with a hand lifting to reach for her.</p>
<p>She snarls, something trembling and surging within her. Merlin’s thrown back, the crack of his head hitting the ground echoing through the throne room. Arthur flinches, his gaze flickering between Merlin and her; it’s only when Gaius moves to Merlin’s side that his attention settles back on her.</p>
<p>Out of the corner of her eyes, she can see some of the knights moving closer; before she can react, Arthur’s stopped them all with a gesture of his hand.</p>
<p>“Even if that’s true,” he says, and his eyes are begging her, pleading to put a stop to this. “How can you forget everything she’s done? To all of us? To you, your brother—”</p>
<p>“Like your father who has killed mine?”</p>
<p>Arthur stiffens, his fingers going white where they’re curled around the throne. The same throne Uther has sat on, the same from where the verdict had been spoken; from where she, too, had nearly been condemned to death, more than once.</p>
<p>She wonders if it will happen again, and the tapestries adorning the walls burst up into flames.</p>
<p>“Gwen, please—<em>please</em> stop this. Whatever Morgana has done to you, we can fix it, I promise,” Arthur begs, his voice wavering.</p>
<p>She stares at him, her fists trembling at her sides. Her heart is thundering within her chest, and a part of her wants to give in; wants to fall into his arms and let him weave promises that everything will be fine. That the magic within her doesn’t belong to her, and that all of this had been nothing but yet another cruelty Morgana bestowed upon her.</p>
<p>Gwen made a promise though, and even if no one but herself witnessed it, she has to, <em>must</em> hold on to that. To the certainty that Morgana isn’t lost to them, to <em>her</em>.</p>
<p>“No,” she says, and the weight of that single word feels too heavy; sealing a fate she knows nothing about, and yet. And yet, its heaviness is more reassuring around her shoulders than all those expensive dresses and golden necklaces have ever been. “No. I will find her, and I will save her even if you’ve long since given up on her.”</p>
<p>Arthur’s face goes white, and something in his expression seems to break at her words. Her heart twists again, but she shoves it down, away, and ignores the urge to reach for him. She’s let Morgana down so many times, and for once—for once, she has to make the difficult choice.</p>
<p>“And if I tried to stop you?”</p>
<p>She clenches her jaw. Draws a deep breath. “I won’t ask you not to—you have no right, not anymore.”</p>
<p>“What do you—”</p>
<p>“I hereby abdicate my place on the throne,” she says, and for all that she has to do this, she wishes it didn’t have to be like this. “My place on the throne and—and my place by your side.”</p>
<p>Her voice breaks at the end, and she has to close her eyes against the endless devastation that’s shining back at her from Arthur’s face. Has to close her eyes and tell herself that she’s doing the right thing as she pulls the wedding ring from her fingers and lets it drop to the floor.</p>
<p>“Guinevere,” Arthur chokes, and she has never, not once heard him sound so broken. Her heart aches. “We can find another way.”</p>
<p>She shakes her head and smiles at him, even though it does nothing but make his expression shutter further. “There is no other way.”</p>
<p>“I cannot let you do this,” Merlin's voice cuts through the following moment of suspension, appearing back at Arthur’s side.</p>
<p>Gwaine’s standing behind him, eyes boring holes into her head, and there’s no surprise at how very easy it is for all of them to turn on her.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry Gwen, but she’s proven more than once that she’s willing to harm—to <em>kill</em> you. I cannot let you walk into this with eyes wide open,” Merlin goes on, and she stares at him, wondering if he truly thinks her stupid enough to believe this.</p>
<p>“Is this what you told yourself, all these years, about Morgana too?”</p>
<p>His shoulders go rigid, and the whole room seems to narrow down to the two of them; murmurs of the knights drifting into the background, even the magic that has been singing in the air receding.</p>
<p>“I’ve only done what I had to; I don’t ask you to understand, but I will not let you walk into your own ruin.”</p>
<p>“You know,” she says, tilting her head. She takes a step back and he follows, his eyes never leaving her. “This would be so much more moving if I didn’t know that you’re doing it solely for Arthur’s sake.”</p>
<p>Merlin flinches back, his mouth twisting. Her magic is pulsing, and she can nearly taste it, feel it wrap around her shoulders and her fingers as if she only had to tug—</p>
<p>“No,” Merlin shouts, and he would’ve reached her too if not for the force that bursts out of her chest, pushing him and everyone back. Its grip on her is tightening and, for the first time since the messenger entered the hall, fear surges up in her throat.</p>
<p>It’s beyond her control though, and she can only watch as the wind picks up, her dress whipping around her and her hair being torn in every direction.</p>
<p>Merlin seems more unaffected than anyone else; his eyes are fixed on her, determination radiating off of him like the magic does from her. She smiles.</p>
<p>It’s hers, hers alone, and no matter how everyone in this room claims to know better what’s best for her, what’s right and what’s wrong—for once, she doesn’t need any of their help.</p>
<p>The buzzing in her ears gets louder, the room starting to spin. Merlin’s shouting something in a language she doesn’t understand, Arthur behind him with wide, terrified eyes, and then the throne room dissolves into a swirl of nothingness.</p>
<p>She lands on her knees in a room with rough floorboards and stale air, a hint of smoke wrapping around her in familiarity.</p>
<p>Her old home; the forge where her father taught her everything about blades and her mother about sewing. Where Elyan followed her around at every step, and where everything began.</p>
<p>Gwen lets herself stay on the floor. Curls in on herself and finally lets the tears out, her body coming apart underneath the force of her grief.</p>
<p>They won’t search for her here. She’s not come back since Elyan died, and she will not return once she’s made it out of Camelot after nightfall.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Act III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tracking down Morgana is so very easy, Gwen can nearly convince herself that she wants to be found.</p><p>It’s only wishful thinking, she knows; she would’ve never made it here if not for her magic urging her forward, urging her west. The horse she managed to get out of Camelot is panting underneath her, but she doesn’t allow for a break; for Camelot’s knights to catch up with her.</p><p>The idea of being hunted down by people who, until yesterday, were hers to command isn’t nearly as unsettling as it should be, and maybe the title of the queen has never been more than a mirage; golden and gleaming, as Arthur had once been to her.</p><p>Blacksmith-daughters are not meant for golden and gleaming. They’re meant to make the crowns, not wear them, and the taste of liberation is rainwater-sweet on her tongue.</p><p>The fortress she eventually finds as dawn crawls over the horizon in frail threads of light is of stark contrast against the pastel-pink sky. Dark towers are worn with the wind of the sea that’s whipping her cloak around, and waves are crashing in the distance.</p><p>It takes very little time until she understands why the blackened stone seems so familiar, and a bitter laugh is wrenched out of her throat. The Castle of Fyrien and she should’ve known, really.</p><p>Morgana has always had a sentimental streak; ever since she was brought to Camelot with nothing to remind her of her own family but the temper of her mother and the name of her father. She’s lost the latter and clung to the former all the more.</p><p>Gwen dismounts in the shallow safety of the forest and leaves the mare to go its own way—back to Camelot, no doubt. She shuts down the part of her mind that wonders what Arthur will think when it returns without her.</p><p>Getting inside is as easy as finding the run-down place, although it’s more due to a lifetime of experience in making herself appear as if she belongs; like she has a right to walk these halls. It doesn’t matter if it’s Camelot’s sand-stone corridors, adorned with tapestries, or crumbling walls overgrown with dirt and grime.</p><p>She knows when she’s about to find the throne room. Not because she remembers her last time here particularly well, terrified and helpless as she’d been. Still depending on Arthur and Merlin and Morgana to save her; save Elyan.</p><p>She knows because her magic flares, and it’s not satisfaction. It’s fire surging through her veins, mingling with so many memories at once, it nearly leaves her disorientated; of Morgana insisting to come to save Elyan, all those years ago, and also of enchanting the sword that killed him.</p><p>Of the look on Morgana’s face when she’d revealed Gwen’s and Arthur’s relationship to Uther, of Gwen comforting her after her nightmares; of the expression of wild, desperate betrayal on Arthur’s face when Gwen’s eyes glowed gold, staring straight at him.</p><p>Of all the things Morgana has taken from her, and how Gwen will save her anyway because Morgana would’ve never done all this to her if she was in her right mind.</p><p>Gwen raises her chin and turns the last corner.</p><p>Two guards are standing in front of the closed double doors, raising their weapons as soon as they spot her. It seems pathetic, laughable, but she still forces a smile. Says with a calm she hasn’t felt in a long time, “I’m here on orders of the Lady Morgana,” and doesn’t wait for an answer as she strides past without either of them so much as protesting.</p><p>Morgana’s standing next to a crumbling throne, talking to a man Gwen doesn’t recognize and doesn’t care about either. Then she meets Morgana’s eyes, and her steps falter—just slightly, but it’s enough. Morgana has always had an uncanny ability to catalogue any weaknesses, faster than her targets even recognized them themselves.</p><p>She curls her hands into fists, hidden by the folds of her cloak, and tamps down on her magic and her racing heart.</p><p>There’s rather a lot of satisfaction in witnessing the complicated row of emotions that flash across Morgana’s face; shock, hope, fury. Forced indifference.</p><p>Morgana has always been good at cataloguing her enemies, but Gwen has always been good at biding her time, staying calm. It’s what made them work so well for such a long time, and even as she wishes for the solid grip of a sword in her hand, she merely keeps watching her.</p><p>Eventually, Morgana’s eyes flicker away from her, over her shoulder. Expecting Arthur and his knights, most likely, and Gwen allows herself to truly take Morgana in.</p><p>The wild hair is nothing new, of course. The dark smudges underneath her eyes are though, the fragility of her wrists. The bitter twist to her mouth that, too, reminds her of Uther and Arthur both.</p><p>“Leave us,” Morgana finally breaks the silence. Gwen had nearly forgotten that they aren’t alone.</p><p>The man flicks his gaze between the two of them, and Gwen has no doubt that he recognizes her. It doesn’t matter—there’s no subterfuge here, no secrecy. By now, all of Camelot will know what their queen—their <em>former</em> queen—had done, and it will be all the easier for her to convince Morgana that she’s not here to trick her.</p><p>What she’s truly here for—she’s not all that sure, but for once, not knowing seems far preferable to making a decision.</p><p>The door clicks shut with silent finality, and she tilts her head. There are a hundred things she could say, that she wants to say so badly they’re burning her throat.</p><p>It’s never been a smart idea to give Morgana an advantage though, and so she bites her tongue. Counts her breaths and stares levelly at the woman who she has once loved more than herself.</p><p>Does, still, if she were honest with herself, and maybe it’s this what still sends shock through her when Morgana’s eyes flash gold, and she slams into a pillar at the side of the room. The air is knocked out of her lungs, and pain, sharp like a knife, twists through her back. Her head throbs, and she has to blink several times until her vision clears again.</p><p>When it does, Morgana’s standing only a foot away from her, lips twisted into an ugly snarl, and Gwen grins.</p><p>This is what she knows; Morgana’s unmasked emotions as she stares at Gwen, lips trembling with fury but so, so honest. The heat in her chest that, for once, is not only her magic curling roots around her ribs until she can barely breathe. Looking into the eyes of someone who has always, always treated her as an equal, no matter if station or power or hatred were cast between them.</p><p>“How <em>dare</em> you come here?” Morgana finally snarls, and all Gwen hears is<em>, how did you find me, why would you come, what do you still want with me?</em></p><p>She’s still pressed up against the pillar, can picture the ridges of the stone making a home in the skin of her back. It’s hard to breathe, and she’s not sure if it’s the force of Morgana’s magic or simply how they’re so very, very close.</p><p>Morgana’s breath is tangible on her face, and she can count the flecks of gold and blue within her eyes.</p><p>“I wasn’t aware that there is a specific order against me searching you out,” she says. Draws up a sweet smile, tilts her head as far as it goes. “I remember you being rather keen to keep me around, not too long ago.”</p><p>Morgana’s eyes widen, just a fraction, shock lightning-fast across her face. Gwen assumes that’s fair—she’s never been one for taunting and scorn, always preferred to express her disdain in carefully chosen words and subtle gestures.</p><p>That had been before she was queen, though. Before that authority she never asked for—never wanted—had cost her so much, and then Morgana had taken the rest.</p><p>This is what Morgana has made her, and if it had been Morgana’s choices or not, it is only right that she gets to reap what she so carefully sowed.</p><p>The shock on Morgana’s face is gone as fast as it appeared, and fury, familiar and nearly comforting in it, follows in its wake. The pressure against Gwen tightens until she can feel her bones shift, ribs carving inwards, and suddenly it’s too reminiscent of everything she has just left behind.</p><p>Of Arthur’s chambers, the mirror cracked and furniture overturned, Merlin advancing on her. Of Arthur’s concern and Merlin’s guilt and Leon’s hovering; of all the things she has not been in a long time, but certainly not since Elyan died in her arms and Morgana—Morgana didn’t even allow her the peace of mind to mourn her own brother.</p><p>She bares her teeth, lips curling back, and there’s a twisted sense of satisfaction at the disconcertment entering Morgana’s eyes. Drawing in a careful breath, she focuses, as much as she ever could. On the magic at her centre; on the weight which has turned from terrifying to comforting—ever since she stopped seeing it as a verdict and moulded it into an opportunity.</p><p>She pushes, forcing it to obey her, the one thing that belongs to her alone and bends to her will.</p><p>The pressure on her disappears and Morgana’s shoved back, stumbling and wide-eyed and lips parting in shock.</p><p>Gwen has always loved her best when her face betrayed everything she was feeling, and it has been so long, so very long, that she allows herself to watch it all play out. Like tracing the lines of a familiar image that she hadn’t laid eyes on for years, and yet, after the first sense of strangeness, is as familiar as it had ever been.</p><p>It won’t last long, she knows, and there’s only so much nostalgia Gwen indulges in these days.</p><p>She advances on Morgana, measuring her steps and never taking her eyes off that damned, beautiful face.</p><p>And yet again, she miscalculates; it may only be seconds, less, even, but Morgana throws her head back and laughs before Gwen can reach her. The sound echoes around the room, bouncing off the walls and the high ceiling and grating on Gwen’s nerves more severely than anything else ever could.</p><p>“You have magic,” Morgana gets out, finally, and her eyes find Gwen’s again. It’s almost comical, how the hatred has lessened to calculation already; how this knowledge alone seems to bridge something that years upon years of what they’ve once been to each other could not.</p><p>It is no wonder that Morgause got her claws into Morgana if it’s this easy for her to be swayed. Maybe it should thrill her, delight her with the promise that it might make so many things easier.</p><p>It doesn’t.</p><p>All it does is spreading numbness down to Gwen’s fingertips, followed swiftly by doubt for this whole half-baked plan, and then—then there is only white-hot rage. It’s clouding her vision even before it reaches her thoughts, and a sound tears itself out of her throat that she cannot identify.</p><p>Before she knows what she’s doing, it’s Morgana who is pinned against a wall. She doesn’t struggle, only stares at Gwen with something akin to the awe that she thought long lost.</p><p>It does not fill her with the hope she might’ve expected when she stood in front of Arthur and vowed Morgana could be saved. It only has bile burning at the back of her throat, twisting into venom infusing her words.</p><p>“I do, and it’s <em>mine</em>. But this does not make me, Morgana, not like it made you—I’m not here to run off with you as you did with a sister that offered you a handful of dulcet promises after I had been at your side through <em>everything</em>. I am <em>nothing</em> like you, and shall I ever be, I’d rather end myself before sinking so very low.”</p><p>“You—”</p><p>“I’m speaking,” she snarls, pushing closer until the heat from Morgana’s body is a palpable thing. Where it once used to soothe her, it only enrages her further, everything within her trembling and shaking. “You’ve taken <em>everything</em> from me. My marriage, my home, my brother. I hate you with every fibre of my being, and the sole reason I’ve not killed you yet—”</p><p>“As if you could—”</p><p>“The sole reason I’ve not killed you yet is that I know you can be saved. That you’re the only one I have left and that—it’s that alone we still have in common.”</p><p>“Only you and me, then.”</p><p>Once, it had been a promise. Now it’s barely more than a threat.</p><p>“Only you and me, then.”</p><p>Morgana considers her, eyes roaming slowly over her face as if searching for the lie, the deception. But Gwen has no secrets left to give, no truths to care about any longer, and for all the immeasurable distance between them, Morgana could always read her just as well as the other way around.</p><p>“So,” Morgana finally says, forced calm suffusing her words. “You need to learn how to control it.”</p><p>“I’m doing just fine—”</p><p>“And you said—” Here, Morgana falters. Swallows, eyes closing just this bit too long. “Your marriage.”</p><p>It’s purposeful, the way she avoids Arthur’s name, and Gwen doesn’t know if she should be resenting her or be grateful for it. Doesn’t know how she’s supposed to react to this, and so she only watches Morgana, anger still burning in her veins, longing coalescing into it.</p><p>Then Morgana’s upon her, whatever spell Gwen put upon her broken by her own moment of weakness or by Morgana’s strength, she doesn’t know. Doesn’t <em>care</em>, not for anything but Morgana’s lips upon hers, fingers digging into her jaw.</p><p>There’s nothing gentle about it, nothing loving, and she doesn’t want there to be. Her fingers clench into Morgana’s waist with just as much force, her teeth sinking into Morgana’s lips, and it nearly brings her to her knees. Both the familiarity of it and the roughness, the harsh, panting gasps and Morgana’s fingers curled tight into her hair.</p><p>It never felt this wrong, never this brilliant, even as she knows, knows down to the marrow of her bones that she will never be able to come back from this. Not in this life, and probably not the next, nor the one coming after that.</p><hr/><p>“You talked about saving me.”</p><p>They’re lying atop a bed, in a room that is only slightly less dreary than the rest of the castle. They’re both still dressed, though their clothes are rumpled, and Gwen feels both dirty and like she’s floating somewhere outside of her own body.</p><p>It takes her a few moments too long to parse through the meaning of Morgana’s words. When she does, her heart starts beating faster, but she swallows against the nervousness, once, twice.</p><p>“Yes,” she says, turning her head to watch Morgana’s profile. For once, there’s barely any tension tightening the lines of her face. They’re not soft either, not like they are in the memories Gwen has carried too close to her heart for many, many years. “What you’ve done to me in the dark tower—”</p><p>She tells herself that she doesn’t imagine the minuscule flinch, doesn’t allow herself to linger on it either. “I know that it didn’t work as intended. I was still conscious, even while I had no influence on what I was doing.”</p><p>It’s strange, to talk about it like this; as if it’s a normal conversation, as if her blood doesn’t start boiling with both fear and fury. She curls her hands into the covers, keeps her eyes fixed on Morgana’s face. Swallows all the demands and accusations that are trying to climb up her throat. “You probably wouldn’t have noticed but—but I think Morgause might’ve done the same to you.”</p><p>Morgana turns her head, and of all the things, amusement is one of the last Gwen expected to find flickering through her eyes.</p><p>“That’s very sweet. You’ve always been too ready to only think the best of everyone, Gwen.”</p><p>The name from Morgana’s lips tastes like honeyed poison; like a punch to her gut and a caress on her face. Her nails are digging into her palms, the world narrowing done to sharp pinpricks of pain.</p><p>“Either the spell would’ve broken when Morgause died, though, or it would’ve killed me.”</p><p>And there it is, the very same thing Merlin and Arthur had told her, over and over. As the last hundred times that she’s heard this, she refuses to accept that anything can ever truly be this simple.</p><p>“Maybe. But I know you, Morgana, and at that point, you wouldn’t have returned, would you? All your pride and self-righteousness would’ve never allowed you to, and by now it’s been so long—”</p><p>“Is that what you’re telling yourself?”</p><p>“It’s not too late, you know? They all miss you—<em>Arthur</em> misses you—”</p><p>“The throne should be mine,” Morgana snarls, shooting upright in bed, and her face twists into the familiar grimace of rage. “It should be <em>mine</em>, and if even a word of what you’re saying were true, how come you’re the only one who is here?”</p><p>The answer should be easy; has been easy, once, and has not changed ever since. Yet, Gwen’s blood is roaring in her ears, her fingers twitching, and her mind is a constant cacophony of Morgana’s every victim. Nameless citizens of Camelot, knights they’ve both known since they were children lingering around the practice field in the hopes of picking up something even though they were not allowed to participate.</p><p>Merlin’s innocence and Arthur’s confidence, Gwen’s compassion. <em>Elyan</em>.</p><p>“You know, the only thing you had to do was ask,” she says, quiet. She sits up as well and tilts her chin up when she meets Morgana’s eyes. “Arthur would’ve given you <em>anything</em> if only you promised not to harm his people. Instead, you let your sister lull you in, and in the end, you’ve still lost more than all of us combined. If I didn’t loathe you so much for all you’ve taken from me, I would pity you, Morgana.”</p><p>Morgana’s gone pale, even as she so very obviously tries holding on to her mask of righteous anger. Gwen doesn’t wait for her to find the next sentences, drenched in bitterness. Getting up from the bed, she offers Morgana a smile that has to be too sharp around the edges and leaves the room.</p><p>“And yet you came,” she hears, more a shout than a statement, before the door clicks shut behind her.</p><p>And really, how is she supposed to deny it? She still came, so who, between the two of them, truly is the bigger fool?</p><hr/><p>Morgana doesn’t try to send her away, and Gwen doesn’t leave. By some unspoken agreement, they don’t go for each other’s throats either, but calling it peace would be a pretty delusion at best.</p><p>Morgana doesn’t bother hiding that she keeps her planning—or whatever it is she’s doing—away from Gwen, and Gwen doesn’t bother trying to find out more for now.</p><p>It’s not that she doesn’t care; Camelot may not be her home anymore, Arthur no longer her husband or even her friend, but the one thing that had made her step in front of him upon Morgana’s declaration of war still holds true.</p><p>She refuses to lose any of them in this pointless war, and the fear of Camelot’s knights for what she has proven herself to be does not diminish it in any way. She just doesn’t think it would help anyone if Morgana got the impression that information is all she’s here for, and so she bides her time.</p><p>The better part of her days is spent wandering the fortress, aimlessly trailing the corridors in search of solutions no physical place can give her.</p><p>Increasingly often, she finds herself on the battlements, biting November wind from the sea ripping at her hair and her clothes. Or Morgana’s clothes—it’s not all that clear anymore what belongs to either of them. Gwen didn’t have the chance to bring many of her possessions, and Morgana’s wardrobe doesn’t consist of much either, but where they barely exchange anything of importance these days, the habit of sharing their material possessions slid right back into place as if it has only been waiting for them to return to it.</p><p>As stupid as she knows she’s being, she draws comfort from it. Lets her fingers glide through the rough fabrics as she’s leaning against the parapet, thoughts circling over and over in contemplation of what she’s done. If she didn’t make the biggest mistake of her life, and if that’s the case, what it makes her that there are barely any regrets.</p><p>The blackened stones might be oozing with hatred, feeding on her and Morgana both and not missing a beat before feeding it right back to them—and yet, she feels more solid than she has in Camelot’s polished walls for the last four years.</p><p>It helps that out here, her magic seems to dance among the wind; golden and silver threads and sparks trickling across her fingertips and palms before forming shapeless figures in the wind.</p><p>“You’re doing well,” Morgana’s voice sounds from behind her, and there’s something to be said for how her teeth grinding together is the only reaction she can bring herself to give.</p><p>“You would do even better if you let me teach you.”</p><p>“What, like I not only have it because of you in the first place?”</p><p>Morgana leans against the parapet next to her, and Gwen can feel her eyes on her face. She doesn’t turn.</p><p>“I did not give you magic.”</p><p>Gwen scoffs, her fingers curling into a fist until the magic is prickling against her palm.</p><p>“Don’t you think I’d rather not give you something that helped you fend off my enchantment, if only a little? Or that I at least would’ve taken it into account?”</p><p>Gods, but Gwen hates when she makes sense.</p><p>Morgana seems to be in a benevolent mood today because she hums, stepping closer. Gwen’s skin tingles with her warmth, her fingers with the need to reach out—to run them through Morgana’s hair or wrap them around her throat, she cannot say.</p><p>“Some people are born with the ability for magic. Most often, it manifests within childhood or young adulthood. Sometimes, though, it only pushes to the surface later when one’s under great strain.”</p><p>“You mean like being mentally tortured by someone who has once called themself your friend?” she spits, words like shards of glass as they move through her throat, and the fire within her chest only grows at the lack of reaction from Morgana.</p><p>“Mentally tortured. Poisoned. Betrayed by their friends first—”</p><p>“I never betrayed you. Don’t you <em>dare</em> twist this into a story that allows you self-pity for this, too; you’re the one who turned her back on Camelot first. On <em>me</em>.”</p><p>Finally, <em>finally</em> Morgana’s placid expression twists, lips curling into the thin line of scorn and bitterness Gwen’s become all too familiar with. “I asked you to stay with me—”</p><p>“After you were ready to kill half of Camelot’s population through your sister’s spell. After you nearly got Uther to execute me. Do not try and sell me pretty lies, Morgana—it has never worked on me, and it sure as hell will not now.”</p><p>A muscle in Morgana’s jaw jumps and her hands clench and unclench at her sides; her eyes are fixed somewhere beyond Gwen’s shoulder on the raging sea.</p><p>Through all her anger, she still cannot help but marvel at how Morgana’s restraining herself; at how, after over a week of icy silences and bursts of temper, the worst Morgana has done to her was pin her against a wall and try weaving glimmering tales lacking any substance.</p><p>“You should let me teach you. Uncontrolled magic can be dangerous.”</p><p>Gwen watches her; watches as Morgana’s eyes flicker to her and away again, the strain around her mouth loosening the slightest amount.</p><p>Thinks that, if nothing else, it might one day save her neck. One day when Morgana’s sense of nostalgia runs out or Camelot’s knights find them, or a hundred other possibilities that haunt her nightmares and which she avoids at all costs during her waking hours.</p><p>“Alright,” she says, tilting her head and finally tearing her eyes away from Morgana’s face. It feels more massive than pressing her Pendragon-seal to any law or missive ever has, and she wonders if this is what reckoning tastes like.</p><hr/><p>Morgana does start teaching her; how to light a fire, how to heal shallow wounds. How to conjure water and wind, and yet none of it is of significance. None of it would ever possibly give her an edge if it came down to it, and she can’t even find it within herself to be surprised.</p><p>Still, she doesn’t say anything. Only stores away every little detail she learns and then spends her nights brooding over how she can twist it into something that would allow her actual self-defence.</p><p>If nothing else, the increasing time they spend together seems to—not provide them with actual progress, exactly, but the wariness in Morgana’s eyes decreases in tiny increments.</p><p>It’s another two weeks later, and they’re having dinner together. This, too, is new, previously their meals separated as well. While Morgana seems more relaxed than Gwen can remember seeing her in a long time, her own fingers are white-knuckled around the cutlery. Her hand trembles when she lifts the goblet, and her heart is hammering against her ribs like it’s trying to get away from here as much as she wishes to.</p><p>Too close, too reminiscent of another dreary dining hall with cobwebs lining the walls and a table only half-cleared. Of tangerine-sweet words and stories of Morgana’s suffering, all perfectly tailored to break apart Gwen’s mind.</p><p>And yet. And yet, she listens. Catalogues the way Morgana’s smile turns the slightest bit soft around the edges when she talks about what else she’s going to teach Gwen.</p><p>Towards the end of the dinner, there’s a lull in the conversation, not that Gwen had been contributing much. She lets the silence wash over her, allows herself to breathe against the tightness around her ribs. Carefully relaxes her fingers, one by one, and forces her magic to calm.</p><p>“You should fight with me.”</p><p>Gwen does not have to look up to know of the sharpness in Morgana’s gaze. For the pieces to click together—the mundane evening, the artfully woven sense of security.</p><p>She slowly puts down her goblet, lets one hand rest beside it. Draws a measured breath and lifts her eyes, meeting Morgana’s gaze. Something is raging in her chest, something urging her to laugh and snarl and reach across the table to slap the calculating glint off Morgana’s face.</p><p>She doesn’t. Leaves her hands relaxed and her breathing even and doesn’t flinch away from the anticipation in Morgana’s eyes.</p><p>“I’m not sure how I would be of much help,” she says, and there had been a time when lying had cost her effort, strength; when it had weighed on her conscience. There had been a time where Morgana hadn’t tainted every little crook of her soul into something unrecognisable, once.</p><p>Morgana hums, her fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the table. “You may not know many spells yet, but with your power and my knowledge, it wouldn’t matter much. Not to mention that you’ve always been rather good with a sword.”</p><p>She wants to laugh. Wants to twist her hands into Morgana’s hair, to force her to look Gwen in the eyes and demand if she believes, if she truly believes that she managed to break Gwen so utterly that she would ever consider fighting those that had only ever tried looking out for her.</p><p>“He would kill you, you know,” Morgana says when Gwen doesn’t react, her lips curling. “By now, surely you must understand that there’s no place in Camelot for people like us. That all I want is to change that.”</p><p>“He would’ve never killed you,” Gwen shoots back, low but with so much conviction that Morgana startles. “Arthur loved—<em>loves</em>—you like a sister, did before he found out that you truly were Uther’s daughter. Arthur is not the one who is a threat to me—not even to people with magic because there have been no executions solely for possessing magic since he became regent. The only one still responsible for countless deaths of innocents is you, Morgana. Just because I came here, just because we have no one left but each other, I’m not an accomplice in your selfish scheme for vengeance on a man who died years ago.”</p><p>Morgana’s hands ball into fists on the table, her eyes flashing and there it is, the ice that had melted away piece by piece over the last few days.</p><p>Gwen feels like a fool for nearly forgetting about it, but this, this she knows; if there is one truth she can hold on to, it’s that she always stays true to her word. Long before she made a promise to do everything in her power to save Morgana, she vowed to always, always speak the truth.</p><p>“If that were true, then he would’ve lifted the ban.”</p><p>“With all you’ve done to his kingdom and his people? Do tell me how he was supposed to justify the change in policy while you confirmed Uther’s propaganda against magic again and again.”</p><p>“How dare you—”</p><p>“Oh spare me,” Gwen snaps, pushing her chair back as she gets up. “I’ve seen you kill the High Priest because he didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. I’ve seen you torture and kill anyone who dared to raise their voice against you, sorcerers or not. For all that Arthur has worked to step out of Uther’s shadow, you’ve done nothing but walk in his footsteps, Morgana, and not standing against you any longer does not mean I’ll stand with you.”</p><p>Once again, she doesn’t wait for an answer. Only spares Morgana one last glance and leaves the room, frigid coldness carving a hollow space into the room beneath her heart.</p><hr/><p>On the heels of the spidery tendrils of doubt follows Mordred.</p><p>It’s mere coincidence that Gwen is there when he arrives, and she’s not sure what makes Morgana allow her to stay at all. She doesn’t care though, too shocked by seeing his face here, of all places, and how he places himself at Morgana’s feet.</p><p>In a flash, she remembers Merlin’s mistrust, his wariness. Remembers Arthur singing his praises, and Merlin watching on with poorly concealed desperation carving lines into his face that made him appear older than Gaius.</p><p>The thought of Merlin still brings a flicker of resentment, but then she catches a glance at Morgana’s crazed face, and she doesn’t know what’s right and wrong anymore. Doesn’t know if anything she’s done or thought or felt ever since the dark tower is of any substance, and the resentment shifts.</p><p>“I know who Emrys is,” Mordred says, and it pulls her out of her spiralling thoughts; pulls her attention right back to the fear and eagerness coalescing into madness on Morgana’s face, and she buries her teeth into her lip.</p><p>As little as Morgana revealed anything to her, Gwen’s heard enough in her weeks here to know of how much significance this is. Knows of Morgana’s fear, the name she utters in her sleep, over and over as if that alone will save her from the one person who has saved all of them again and again.</p><p>“It’s Merlin.”</p><p>There’s a second of stillness; a second where the whole room seems to hold its breath, Morgana’s eyes wide and Mordred’s steady, and then Gwen throws her head back and <em>laughs</em>. She laughs and laughs and laughs even as Morgana screams, the walls of the castle trembling and shaking. She laughs as rubble rains down around them and Mordred is shouting, and Morgana is still screaming, and Gwen still laughs because if she stops, she fears if she stops, she will start sobbing until her throat is scraped raw with the waves of grief crashing over her.</p><hr/><p>“I did not expect to see you here, my Lady.”</p><p>Gwen can’t bring herself to fake a smile, cannot bring herself to quell the scorn at this <em>child</em> who thinks losing one person is justification enough to betray a man who loved him like a son.</p><p>Then again, maybe she does not have room to cast judgement any longer, and so she stays silent.</p><p>Morgana has gone off to goddess knows where, and Gwen and Mordred are sitting over an untouched dinner.</p><p>“So, Merlin is supposed to be Morgana’s doom,” she says, and she wonders if it’s magic or this blasted, cursed castle, or simply all Morgana that has her discussing death and war and damning prophecies over roasted rabbit and vegetables.</p><p>Mordred’s face twists, every single time Merlin pushed him away and scorned him mirrored on his young face. Gods but he is so terribly young, and Gwen doesn’t need to know Merlin and Arthur to be sure that there’s far more to the story he’s spun.</p><p>“Emrys is—” Mordred starts, his eyes roaming through the room. He swallows, then visibly steels himself. It reminds her of Arthur defending Uther’s orders, back when he wasn’t even crown prince yet.</p><p>Something within her aches; something else—something else is so very tired of trying to save people from themselves.</p><p>“There are many prophecies about him; how he’s supposed to aid the Once and Future King to unite the land of Albion and bring back magic to the land.”</p><p>“The Once and Future—<em>Arthur?”</em></p><p>“That’s what the Druids believe.”</p><p>His tone couldn’t be more disbelieving, and it couldn’t be more disappointed.</p><p>“You don’t believe it anymore?” she asks, but her mind is whirring. So many pieces are clicking into place, so many small things over the years that seemed strange, and yet no one ever questioned them much.</p><p>All their lucky calls; Gwen making it out of the dungeons the first time—and oh, something pulls and twists and <em>hurts</em> at the realisation that it must have been Merlin who healed her father. The attacks on Camelot from Morgause and Morgana, and all the times Arthur only just jumped off death’s scythe.</p><p>How Merlin had saved her too, so many times. How he didn’t do the same for Morgana, and she—she just wants for all this to be over. To not both hate and love him, to not understand how the safety of a whole kingdom would be too much for a single person to bear, and to not resent him for all his mistakes.</p><p>She just wants to go back to a time where Morgana hadn’t been plagued by nightmares and Merlin was nothing more than a clumsy but infinitely kind boy who sometimes helped her out with her chores. Where Morgana’s smiles were still genuine and bright, and Arthur’s laughter not laden with grief, and her own heart not broken and stitched back together so many times that it’s nearly completely made up of scars.</p><p>“Emrys has proven himself to be no friend to anyone but Arthur,” Mordred says, and Gwen’s too tired to argue any further.</p><p>“I did not expect you, of all people, to betray Arthur,” she says instead, watching as he winces, his hands tightening around the fork he’s not using.</p><p>He meets her eyes, something defiant shining in them. “I could say the same about you.”</p><p>The smile tugging at her lips cannot be anything but bitter, but she doesn’t bother trying to tamp it down. “I’ve not joined Morgana—not betrayed any of my friends.”</p><p>“Then what are you doing here?”</p><p>“I believed she could be saved.”</p><p>Mordred tilts his head, and his gaze bears too much weight for someone of his age. “But you do not any longer?”</p><p>Gwen thinks of the brief moments where a piece of Morgana shone through that she had thought lost; thinks of how sometimes, Morgana’s hands turn gentle and her lips soft. Of how she <em>listens</em> to Gwen even though she throws hatred back in response.</p><p>“Perhaps with time,” she finally says and finds that she believes it—all the while too aware that there’s nothing she has less of than time. How her own hatred is building walls around her, and how she cannot tell anymore if she should strengthen them or tear them down.</p><hr/><p>While Mordred’s presence seems to spur Morgana into action, he has the advantage of being all too willing to share what he knows with Gwen.</p><p>For all that it’s worth, it only throws her back into feeling helpless, and she wants to laugh at her own naivety. At how she believed that she alone could change Morgana’s path when the first thing she had ever learned about Morgana was that once she set her mind to something, she never gave up.</p><p>Then again, she also once thought that applied to her as well.</p><p>There’s not much she can do. As much as every night they sleep in the same bed, hands rough and mouths leaving bruises, Morgana will not yield to her. As much as every new day brings more distance, more disillusionment, there is nothing for her to go back to but a golden cage.</p><p>It’s not even fear anymore, not really; just that for all that these halls hold no warmth for her, they do allow her freedom.</p><p>They allow her freedom and the small, burning hope that maybe, just maybe, the scraps of information will ultimately give her what she needs to prevent more blood from being spilt.</p><p>If she can save one, only one more person that she loves, maybe all of this will be worth it, and maybe that is just another doomed ambition she’s clinging to, but it’s all she has left.</p><p>Morgana cares less and less if Gwen hears about her plans, and even if she fought, Gwen would push back as much as it takes.</p><p>There may be little to no hope left to stop Morgana from going through with this war, but Gwen—Gwen made a promise, and she will not break it, will try and try and <em>try</em> even if hope has long since stopped factoring into the equation.</p><p>“You shouldn’t come,” Morgana tells her the night before they are due to leave, and her tone is almost gentle. Almost worried, so soft that in the darkness of the cold room, Gwen can close her eyes and believe herself in Morgana’s chambers, years ago. Almost.</p><p>Almost, but for the vehemence with which she replies, “If you think you can leave me behind, I will bring this damned castle down on us,” and the fact that she means it with every fibre of her being.</p><p>Almost, but for how Morgana’s silence belies that she knows Gwen would, <em>could</em>. For how she curls her fingers around Gwen’s throat, nails digging into her skin, and kisses her like it is going to be the last time.</p><hr/><p>She finds out from Mordred that Morgana has taken Merlin’s magic, and it has nausea churning in her gut. As much as she had resented the power that’s made itself a home within her, the idea of someone taking it from her makes her want to spit in fury.</p><p>It’s only worsened by the knowledge that must’ve prompted Morgana’s decision in the first place; without Merlin’s help, Camelot—<em>Arthur</em>—is nearly bound to lose the battle.</p><p>Gwen has seen what a Camelot under Morgana’s rule would look like, and it doesn’t matter how much she loves her. How much a part of her still clings to the belief that somewhere underneath layers upon layers of hatred and madness, there’s still the woman who had wound ribbons of flowers around their wrists and called it a handfasting because she decreed it so.</p><p>No matter how much she has collected crumbs of proof for it, she can not—does not <em>want</em> to—shut up the part of herself that knows Morgana’s victory would sow misery across the land.</p><p>Still, she doesn’t say anything; bites her tongue and swallows her words, nails buried into her palms as she watches Aithusa burnishing Mordred’s sword.</p><p>It’s the glint in his eyes, the one too reminiscent of what she finds in Morgana’s, that fells her decision.</p><p>One thing has become clear over the days Mordred had been in the fortress—his issue is personal, solely focused on Arthur as an extension of Merlin. As much as Morgana’s is, too, it’s still different.</p><p>Arthur may have let many chances pass to kill Morgana, but Morgana has, too. Not that Gwen would ever tell her that, isn’t even sure if Morgana is aware that for all her elaborate plans, she let the most obvious opportunities slip through her fingers again and again.</p><p>Mordred, though—Mordred has only one goal for the coming battle. Maybe it is unlucky for him that if it comes right down to a choice between him and everyone else, it isn’t a question at all who Gwen will choose.</p><p>Morgana can defend herself; is nearly impossible to kill for any of Camelot’s knights, especially with Merlin’s power taken out of the equation. She has also let slip that instead of actively joining the fight, she will keep an eye on Mordred, on her army; how it’s Mordred’s privilege to find Arthur.</p><p>Gwen doesn’t react, doesn’t rise to the questioning glances and increasingly biting comments Morgana directs at her. Stays calm and smiles and tells Morgana that all she will be there for is defending herself and those she loves.</p><p>The way Morgana grins at her in response, as if Gwen had made a vow, does nothing but illustrate how very little she understands Gwen these days.</p><p>Gwen has always loved Morgana; loved her more than anyone else, would even admit it if asked. It never negated her love for others though, and maybe that’s where the first crack in their foundation came from, leaving them to shatter apart. Leaving them both with bleeding, shaking hands, trying to stitch the shards back together until their skin was worn away, at last tended to by others.</p><hr/><p>The battlefield is nothing but chaos, and her heart has been thundering against her ribs for so long, she can barely remember a time where this mixture of fear and determination didn’t make up the whole of her.</p><p>The handle of her sword is familiar in her grip, even as the large hood she has drawn into her face is not. A scarf covers half her mouth and nose, and while telling Morgana that it’s a mere measure to avoid capture has not been a lie, it serves just as well to follow Mordred mostly unnoticed.</p><p>He’s good, she’ll give him that, but any compliment she could’ve possibly paid is drowned out by the acrid taste of scorn at how she recognises the way he fights. How he gives his opponents moments to advance, measuring them within seconds; the way he twists and throws his weight into each and every thrust. It’s all Arthur.</p><p>Still, more than once it’s only Morgana’s magic that saves him. Gwen’s not sure if she loathes more how it’s so very easy for Morgana to protect someone who has done much worse to her than Gwen ever did, or how each and every time is a reminder that Morgana is watching, always watching.</p><p>As for herself, it’s easy enough to twist her way out of most fights, and when she fails, her magic seems more than ready to defend her. She hopes, <em>begs</em> that all those who do not get back up after they’re hurled away from her are only unconscious. She cannot bring herself to check.</p><p>Cannot bring herself to truly contemplate how the battle is going. Years as queen have given her enough insight to know that Morgana’s army of Saxons is far more than an idle threat to Camelot’s forces.</p><p>The ground is littered in red, and the golden, gleaming dragon staring back at her from every direction would’ve had her kneel over if not for the adrenaline urging her onwards.</p><p>Adrenaline and determination only get her so far though. As much as she tries to subtly intervene, to turn battles she comes across in Camelot’s favour without losing sight of Mordred, she alone cannot turn the war.</p><p>With every passing minute, her desperation mounts, weaving around her ribs and threatening to strangle the air out of her lungs. She doesn’t know what to <em>do</em>, how to combine her need to save Morgana with the sheer terror that the prospect of Morgana’s victory brings.</p><p>Even with a sword in her hand and her magic singing in her veins, she feels so very helpless.</p><p>Helpless, until thunder rolls across the battlefield, lightning throwing back Morgana’s men around her. The air suddenly brims with static, the ground shaking underneath her, and she can feel the power of the magic, can taste it in the back of her throat.</p><p>Not even Morgana at her greatest displays of power has ever come remotely close, and Gwen knows, knows without the sliver of a doubt who the hooded figure towering on the cliffs above them is.</p><p>She laughs because it’s that or breaking down crying; it’s that or taking Morgana and running until all of Albion is nothing but a spectre of dust in their memories, and neither of those is an option at all.</p><p>Neither is an option and so she does what she has been doing the whole night. Fixes her eyes on Mordred and follows him as he weaves between the throngs of men falling to Merlin’s power like they are nothing more than the figurines of wood Arthur likes to use for his strategy-planning.</p><p>Follows him, watching, as he uses his own magic for the first time tonight to shield himself. Only himself and Gwen doesn’t know how he does it, doesn’t know how to protect herself, but Merlin’s magic does not touch her. Doesn’t graze her skin even once, and she has to clench her fingers around the hilt of her sword and swallow to keep herself from screaming.</p><p>She does not turn to check on Morgana.</p><p>The fight quietens behind her, and still, Mordred keeps walking through the rows upon rows of fallen men. Gwen’s eyes are stubbornly glued to the back of his head, everything within her aware that if she were to look away, if she were to look at the faces of men who she had known for all her life, she would not be able to stand the proof of all the ways she has failed.</p><p>Her home. Morgana. Herself.</p><p>It’s only fitting, in a way, that she spots Arthur first; spots the way the burning fires catch on the gold of his hair where he’s bowed over one of his knights, just before Mordred freezes. Stops right where he stands, his shoulders going rigid.</p><p>For a moment, she thinks that he might not go through with it; for a moment, she hesitates, eyes still fixed on Arthur’s back that rises and falls, <em>breathing</em>. Blessedly alive.</p><p>Only a moment, and it’s all the time it takes for Mordred to cross the distance in quick strides. It’s the familiar clang of metal that startles her out of her shock, and a sound tears out of her throat that she doesn’t dare categorize.</p><p>She sees Arthur falter when he turns and recognises Mordred. Sees his arms drop uselessly to his sides, and how his eyes stray past Mordred, landing on her. Sees Mordred’s shoulders shift, undeterred, and there’s a storm raging inside her head, pounding against her skull from within and sending a deluge through her whole body.</p><p>Mordred falters, stumbling, but his sword-arm is still raised. His shoulders shake, and something is pressing back against her magic, keeping it from putting the distance between the two of them she so desperately needs.</p><p>Arthur’s still staring at her, and Mordred seems to shake himself, and Gwen’s magic is failing her. <em>Gwen’s magic is failing her</em>, but the sword in her hand is not, has never once in her life failed her when she depended on it. She doesn’t know how she could’ve possibly crossed the distance between herself and Mordred before his sword buries itself into Arthur, but it doesn’t.</p><p>It doesn’t, doesn’t reach Arthur before he stumbles back and Mordred is pinned into place, Gwen’s sword cutting clean through him. Exactly how Morgana had taught her back when Gwen used to sneak weapons out of her father’s forge so the two of them could train.</p><p>A horrible gurgling sound spills past Mordred’s lips, and she clenches her jaw. Twists the blade, once, twice, how she’s seen Arthur do countless times. She only steps back when she’s <em>sure</em>, when she’s one-hundred per cent sure that he will not take another step, will not pose a threat to one more person she loves.</p><p>Mordred turns to stare at her, his eyes wide but a serene smile twisting his face, and he keeps his eyes fixed on her until he lies on the ground, motionless, no longer seeing anything.</p><p>Arthur’s gaze is heavy on her skin, and she has to steel herself before she meets it. For all her efforts to stay disguised, she has no doubt that he knows exactly who she is, has no doubt that there will be judgement and doubt both on his expression.</p><p>There’s not. His eyes are so laden with grief, it nearly brings her to her knees, and for all that she has loathed herself for not fighting more for Morgana, this might be what unmakes her.</p><p>She should say something, find the words to tell him that it has never been about him, not really. To vow that within this whole mess, he’s always got the worst deal while deserving it least.</p><p>A blood-curling scream shatters the silence between them long before she can find her voice, and then Morgana is upon her, eyes wild and mad and her fingers like claws around Gwen’s neck. She’s screaming, spitting words into Gwen’s face about betrayal and revenge and how she’s known, <em>always known</em> and Gwen wants to say something. Wants to push her back and snarl into her face and draw her close, and—</p><p>And then Morgana goes rigid, pupils blowing wide and lips parting. Exhales in a rush, her fingers upon Gwen’s body slackening, and her shoulders slump.</p><p>Something frantic is growing within Gwen’s chest, and her hands curl around Morgana’s jaw before she knows what she’s doing. Her knees give out when Morgana collapses against her with a whimper.</p><p>She looks up and her eyes find Merlin’s. Merlin, with apologies and coldness both carved into his face, and Arthur’s sword still in his hand, the blade a damning red.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” she chokes, fingers skittering over Morgana until she finds the wound, finds the spot where her clothes are turning wet on her chest. Finds the blood coating her fingers, thick and <em>so very human</em>, and someone’s screaming again.</p><p>Someone’s screaming and her throat feels raw, everything around her pulsing and buzzing, and her chest is too tight; her chest is too tight and there is no air, her ribs carving inward as if trying to choke her where she’s hunched over Morgana lying in her lap.</p><p>“<em>Gwen</em>,” she hears, and when she looks up, Merlin’s bowed over her, eyes so very gentle.</p><p>“I didn’t do it for you,” she snarls, her voice cracking and breaking, and yet he flinches back. “I didn’t save him for you, and I didn’t save him for himself; I did it for no one but myself, and don’t you <em>dare</em> think that I will ever forgive you for this.”</p><p>“I—“ Merlin starts, and for all that he wields the power of gods, for all that the red on the sword in his hand still damns him, he looks more lost than all those years back when he introduced himself to her, stuck in the stocks. “She would’ve <em>killed</em> you.”</p><p>“I would’ve rather died myself than watch her die,” she spits back, and the truth might’ve formed into words, but it doesn’t leave her; curls roots down her throat and through her lungs, everything within her shaking apart.</p><p>A touch against her cheek draws her back, and she finds Morgana’s eyes staring up at her. There’s immeasurable tenderness, but also amusement as if none of this is real.</p><p>“As if a simple blade could kill me,” Morgana rasps, the pressure of her fingers against Gwen’s cheeks increasing.</p><p>Any trace of softness vanishes when she turns her head, baring red teeth as her gaze meets Merlin’s. “You’ll have to do better than that, <em>Emrys</em>. I’m not—”</p><p>“This is no simple blade,” Merlin cuts in, and for all that Gwen has never hated him more than right this moment, the sorrow in his eyes when he looks at Morgana still leaves her aching. “It has been forged in a dragon’s breath. It’s over, Morgana.”</p><p>Morgana’s fingers tighten around Gwen’s, and her eyes flutter close. Flutter close for only a moment, and then they settle on Arthur where he’s still standing behind Merlin, pale and drawn and eyes so, so old.</p><p>“I hope you’re happy now, <em>dear brother</em>. Finally fulfilling what your father has invested so many years of his life in. A pity that you could not do so without betraying everything he stood for, isn’t it? Without losing everything along the way?”</p><p>It’s bitterly ironic how it’s this, of all things, that quells the desperate fury within Gwen’s chest; how it lifts the fog she has not been able to rid herself of since Morgana locked her in a room with dripping roots and all her worst fears.</p><p>How she finally, <em>finally</em> looks at the woman who had once been her world and understands; understands that ultimately, it does not matter at all if Morgana had been enchanted, or too stubborn and headstrong and alienated to return. How it doesn’t matter because, in the end, it has still been her who committed each and every horror against them.</p><p>Who destroyed Gwen’s life from the foundations up to everything she could reach, and never even had the decency to apologise when Gwen gave up the few things she had left to come and find her.</p><p>Her nails dig into Morgana’s skin, and Morgana flinches. Flinches and tightens her grip, bringing one hand up to touch Gwen’s face.</p><p>She forces herself to stay still, her teeth grinding together. Forces herself to hold Morgana’s gaze and wait for what else she possibly has to say.</p><p>Morgana’s mouth trembles and her hand drops from Gwen’s face. Her eyes close, and when she opens them again, the strength it must cost her twists her whole face into a grimace. “Gwen,” she says, and it sounds soft in a way that she had convinced herself never existed. “Gwen. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”</p><p>The sound wrenching itself out of her throat is as much a sob as it is a laugh. She hunches over, presses her forehead against Morgana’s and breathes her in. Draws back just far enough to meet her eyes and smiles.</p><p>“No. I have loved you since I’ve known you, and I still love you, more than I’ve ever loved another human. But I will never forgive you, for as long as I live.”</p><p>Morgana dips her chin, her fingers twisting between Gwen’s. Closes her eyes and exhales in a rattling breath.</p><p>“Me neither,” she says, and her body slacks in Gwen’s grip.</p><hr/><p>She does not return with them, regardless of how insistently Arthur and Merlin both assure her that she will always be welcome, that things are changing.</p><p>She does not plan to stay in the land of Camelot at all. She’s not sure yet where she will go, but she remembers Elyan's tales and thinks maybe, the places he spoke of most fondly are a good start to fill the hole that’s festering away in her chest.<br/><br/></p><p>
  <strong>—The End.</strong>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Warnings:</strong> this contains Major Character Death and while it's not Gwen, the character is central to the fic. There are also mentions of violence that, while not overly graphic, are slightly more explicit than the show was. The mentioned mind control is what we see in canon, but I personally always felt like there should've been much greater repercussions for what Gwen went through. This is my attempt to explore this. Of course, everyone deals differently with trauma, and this is only one angle. </p><p>I hope you liked it. ❤️</p></blockquote></div></div>
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